Expectations come through in yellows.
Blaming my medicine, I have strong pulses,
wanting to throw things and what does it feel like
to grip your hair, even short hair, and pull
and pull and pull until it hurts and mechanical
tears are sifting through an ugly landscape?
I believe and I try to know who I am, and I work
to create, never asking about the futility, and then
there are these diligent blasts to my psyche because
I “make the reader work” and that sucks and
the reader doesn’t know what’s real and it’s
“hard to write about mental illness,” so why
don’t I write about the day a woman killed the man
in the basement of a small apartment in Kansas
City, so I can guide my gentle reader along; Oh,
but do you know how deeply I hate myself right
now, and now is when I understand that I am not made
for this world, but tomorrow, I will go to work
and play with numbers and systems and stop
bad guys and for moments I will feel good about
that part of my life until I remember the meaninglessness.
I want all of the emptiness to go away, but it stands
there telling me what a terrible nut I am, and
meanwhile there is this terrible yearning coming
through with screams of terror, wanting to do
something well, and I scream back, Shut up,
Shut up, Shut up; I will kill you myself and leave
you in a basement in Kansas City.